War Games
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: G1: In which is a very good reason why Skywarp should not be left unsupervised. Well, mostly. Be advised: contains intense violence.


**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended._

**Continuity**: G1 (Generation One), pre-Earth.

**Characters**: Thundercracker, Skywarp

**Warnings**: Upping the rating. Intense violence.

**Author's Note**: Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

--

"I never thought I'd say this, 'Warp, but this is actually getting sort of boring," Thundercracker sighed heavily, wrenching back as hard as he could. There was a soft pop and a screech of tortured metal, and the Seeker rose again, tossing the annexed arm from one hand to the other with a deeply meditative air. "And by 'sort of', I mean _really_."

In answer, Skywarp harrumphed, placing one foot on the abdomen of his latest victim, grabbed both of the captive's legs, and hauled upward. "_Ugh_ – slaggit, stubborn _bolts_—"

The Autobot shuddered hard, its single remaining optic flickering blue and soft against the gloomy light of the bunker, broken white noise issuing from its mostly removed vocalizer. From the recessed cells, ensconced behind solid energy bars, the remaining wretches of the doomed patrol huddled together, watching with blank misery as their fellows were rent limb from limb. Beside the occupied compartments, what could be salvaged or recycled from their departed comrades towered high in grisly piles, glistening with used energon and coolants. That which could not be reused – spark chambers, badly damaged parts, and the most of the central processors – was carelessly shucked aside, scattered haphazardly across the small room.

"You'd think we'd got enough spare parts, right?" Continuing on though he had been thoroughly ignored, Thundercracker straightened and tossed the recently removed arm to the nearest pile, flicking his hands to rid them of various fluids released in the dismantling.

"You can never have enough spare parts," Skywarp grunted tetchily, still struggling with the legs. "Especially if you're the one the medic's ogling."

The bunker rattled abruptly, the jittering uncomfortably akin to an organic beast shaking free water from its coat, dust and grit sliding free of the badly cracked roof. The two Decepticons paused, craning their heads back to glare at the offending arch of ceiling. The rumble eased off, and again the world lapsed into silence.

The captives – having long ago lost hope – stared straight ahead, minds beyond the reach of such trivialities as bomb strikes. A smaller mechanism, a more recent addition to the Decepticon's collection, rocked back and forth in little jerking motions, clutching a removed faceplate in one hand, his fingers peeking through from the holes where the optics once rested. Occasionally, little burbling-nonsense words made their way free from his vocalizer, sharp and tinny and lost again in the pervasive quiet moments after their utterance.

Ignoring the prisoners, Thundercracker let go of the mostly-dead mechanism he had so diligently been working upon, and stalked to the nearby pile of cleaning swipes. He rifled through the small cans of touch-up paint – blue and black and purple – searching out the astringent cleaner used to remove congealed liquids. "Can't wait to get out of this slag-pool. You know what I'm going to do first thing? When we get back to base?"

"Find something new to whine about?"

"Keep talking, astrodart," The Seeker rumbled, scowling as he buffed away the worst of the dust from his optical lenses. "See where it gets you."

"Alright, whatever you say, Big Bad. What are you going to do?"

"Cleaning racks. First thing. Going to shine like a Tower brat."

"With paint as dull as yours? Why bother?" Skywarp snorted, waving an oily hand dismissively. "Don't care how much polish you use, you'll never be real shiny."

"There's nothing wrong with my paint – I'm just a little dinged up, is all," Thundercracker grumbled sullenly, self-consciously plucking at a particularly large gob of congealed energon on his canopy. "I can gloss up real nice, just you wait and see."

"Can you believe this?" Skywarp asked the piecemeal Autobot in his arms genially. "Thinks he's some sort of hot shot, all high-speed. Even if he did get all squeaky-clean, who'd want to look at his ugly mug when I'm around, huh?" When the dying being in his arms declined comment, he sighed despairingly, lifting a hand to his brow for dramatic effect. "No one appreciates me."

"I'd appreciate you more if you'd shut your trap," The ground crunched as Thundercracker stomped around the remaining cluster of Autobots, counting. "Twelve more fragging 'bots to go through. Slagging stupid, ugly rust-magnets. Stop being so fragging juicy!" He shouted, kicking the cage bars. Twelve sets of vaguely desolate optics lifted to regard his tantrum, and summarily ignore it. Somewhat unsettled, he glanced away, grimacing. "Jus' go into stasis lock already."

Behind him, Skywarp groaned, shoving what little remained of the legless Autobot off his lap with a careless clang. He stormed up beside Thundercracker, wrapping both hands around the bars and rattling them as he counted for himself. "Twelve? We've done at like a hundred already! How many of you slaggers are out there?"

Thundercracker cast a dark look toward their towers of stolen pieces. "Nah, I think more like twenty, give or take. They started to blur together after a while."

"No. No, there has to be a better way," Skywarp shook his head defiantly, releasing the energy bars with a hiss of slight pain. "I'll go loopy if I have to stay here much longer."

"It is punishment detail," Thundercracker said morosely, shrugging. "Don't you remember?"

"Remember what?"

"That thing, with that, uh, what's his name? Big 'con, stupid drawl, sorta slack-jawed like this?" Thundercracker let his bottom jaw hang loose and slightly askew to demonstrate. "The thing with the welding and the rubble and that semi-dud missile we found? Remember?"

Skywarp gave him a long, befuddled look. "What?"

"'Oh, Primus, doesn't anyone hear the ticking, help me, help me'?" Thundercracker deadpanned, waving his arms slightly for effect. "'Waaagh?'"

"Oh, right. Yeah, that. Is'at why we're here? Huh. Slagging brat, bawling off to stupid Hardtack. We told him we were pretty sure it was a dud, right? Like it was really all that bad," Dismissively rattling his wings, Skywarp rocked back on his thrusters, considering the remaining Autobots. "I don't think they'll be able to tell if we did all of 'em or not. Why don't we just off the dolts and light outta here?"

"You know Hardtack, he'll probably want to check. The bodies have to be _gone_."

Skywarp tilted his head, giving Thundercracker a sideways look. With a sly smile, he sidled up to his wing mate, all coy innocence, "If you gave me some of your rations to make up for it, I could warp out the bodies."

Snorting, Thundercracker shoved him away, lip curling in a snarl. "Pfft. As if. 'Sides, you leave that funny taste in the air when you warp."

Stumbling to regain his balance, Skywarp squawked, "Taste? Tastes like what?" and promptly tipped over on his aft, overbalanced by his heavy wings and intakes.

The blue Seeker shifted, dredging up the memories. He waved vaguely in the air, trying to grasp at the inexplicable. "I don't know, it's weird."

"It has to be like something."

"Tastes like a warp, a'right? Slag, I don't know what it's supposed to be. It's just a funny-weird thing."

"Huh. Whatever." Skywarp shrugged, glowering meditatively at the remaining apathetic captives. He idly snatched up a section of plating conspicuously sporting a badly scorched Autobot symbol. He flipped it back and forth, from palm to palm, the glowering face flashing accusingly upward as it spun through the space between his hands. "Not as much fun if they aren't screaming, y'know? Sucks all the entertainment right outta this."

"Yeah, right," Thundercracker replied airily, toeing a partially dismantled forearm around. "I thought it was kinda annoying, actually. Screeching like that, on and on." He had been rather relieved when they had figured out how to knock out most of the sensor array, when energy deprivation hadn't been enough to offline the slaggers. His audios were still ringing; he'd have to track down and coerce a medic (or someone close enough to it) to take a look for lasting damage.

"Anything's better than the stupid fish-eye look they're givin' me," He chucked the garbage the huddle, pouting when it merely bounced on the wall behind them. The smokey-blue optics remained flat and impassive, focused vaguely in his direction. Lip curling in distaste, he snatched a handful of bolts and bits, lost on the floor, and threw them again. "Primus, liven up, you freaks."

"So," Thundercracker asked after a long moment of disturbing quiet. His optics flickered at how discordant he sounded, and he resolutely turned so he presented only his side to the prisoners of war, his view blocked by his intake.

"So?" Skywarp repeated archly, continuing with his stare-down of the soon-to-be broken down 'bots.

"What are we going to do?"

At last disconcerted enough by the mindless gawking, Skywarp gave off his sullen watch, asking flatly, "What are we going to do about what?"

Thundercracker rolled back his head and silently begged Primus for the fortitude to put up with such patent idiocy, jabbing a finger at the cages. "About them," he snarled, at the end of his patience with Skywarp insistence on repeating everything he said.

The teleporter squinted, looked to the silent mass of Autobots, and drifted his gaze back to Thundercracker once more. His lips pursed, ridges drawing low as considered Thundercracker's words, processor whirring. His mouth opened, shut, and he glanced one more time at what remained of their punishment. Coming to some unfathomable conclusion, he imparted with a great sense of profoundness, "Uh, what about 'em?"

Thundercracker graced his companion with a long, contemplative frown. "'Warp, you are seven kinds of stupid."

"Hey!"

"Hey, nothing. You're an idiot. I don't know why they let you get off the production line."

Somewhat wounded in pride, Skywarp hissed, "Go get clipped, pulp-for-processors," and kicked junk at his wing mate peevishly. "You're not exactly the strategic glory of the Decepticon empire, you fragged up waste of a glider."

Eagerly, Thundercracker rose to the occasion. "Tailhook licking slag-drone."

Skywarp gathered himself, sitting up ramrod straight. "Tinfoil-plated, treadheaded tank-bait," He declared evenly, every angle of his body daring Thundercracker to do better.

"Slack-winged, battle-rattled T-R-A-S-H," He, obligingly, rattled off.

"Short-shafted clunker."

"Glitching back-looped rust buster."

"Battery powered turbopropped mud-grubber," Skywarp rose to his feet, taking two steps toward his lone companion.

"Propeller driven nitwit," Thundercracker indifferently retorted, miming the approach.

"Blunt-coned bootleg of a vape-huffer."

"Slagging aft-heavy hangar queen." They were nearly bumping into each other, close enough for the air to distort with heat waves between their chests.

Skywarp paused, seeking the appropriate response from his impressive repertoire., his hands on his hips, one leg thrown out for balance. "I hope you get triple-A'd," He spat, caught between indignation and triumph.

"Frag off, feather-blender," Thundercracker replied with a note of finality, jerking his chin up haughtily. He, with great ceremony, lifted his arm, pointing stiff and sure right at his wing mate's chest, and poked him square at the top of his canopy, stabbing the faux-glass with every word."Your. Pranks. Are. Stupid."

The teleporter went rigid, optics narrow and bright, core temperature skyrocketing. His mouth fell open, closed, made a strange clicking-whine sounds as the gears protested the jerky, unwilling motion. He spluttered, on the sheer precipice of committing great violence against his fellow Decepticon, his aura oscillating with fury.

Thundercracker stared him down placidly, unmoved by the hostile display. "Well?" He prompted coolly, folding his arms.

Skywarp's optics flashed dangerously, and a jagged grin split his pale features. "I've got it."

--

"Primus, look at 'em run!" Skywarp cackled, his voice high with mirth. He leaned as far as he could without letting any limbs poke out of their hidey-hole, and chortled again. Several stories below their burned out shelter, silent, disoriented figures bumbled and limped about the open space between heaps of rubble, flailing their limbs in frenetic gestures. Their optics were dark, bodies heavy and graceless in the uneven terrain. One by one, their heads cracked back, bodies stiffening briefly before crumpling to the scorched, cracked ground. Their fellows, seemingly maddened by these inexplicible deaths, shuffled about all the more, not coordinated enough to scale the concave hollow – the blackened site of an old aerial strike – bumping into each other in their hysterical shamble.

Clearly visible, even at the Seeker's lofty height, purple sigils adorned their chests and any available open surfaces where such emblem should be borne, displayed with blatant pride. Though, some of the touch-up paint curled half off their dirty frames, unable to cling to such a grimy surface. But, it was enough, from a sufficient distance, to not notice such little warpings in the surface, to see only the mark of the enemy, and deal with it accordingly.

What luck, the Autobots would think, that we found them like this, so exposed and disorganized.

Skywarp fell back again, giggling hard enough to make his wings shake. "Oh, oh, do you see their faces? Do you? Priceless!"

Thundercracker chuckled dryly, toying with a still-warm vocalizer cradled oh-so-innocently in his palms. "I gotta hand it to you, 'Warp, this is one of your better ideas."

"Look at that, they're getting smarter," Skywarp cooed, pointing at a pair who, on hands and knees, were crawling up one of the more forgiving slopes. "Brings a warmth to my spark, it really does."

The enterprising duo paused as if one, shuddering hard. One fell limply forward, sliding down the incline, leaving a shimmering trail of energon in his wake. The other undulated and thrashed his legs, fingers convulsing into his handhold. His maw gaped open, lips pulled back in a convulsion of agony. With trembling hands, he reached for the next divot, laboriously hauling himself forward—

His hand exploded into a fountain of delicate, intricate parts and various fuels. His arm retracted like a released spring, and he curled around the injury, in the process losing his precarious hold and slipping back into the death-pit.

It had been easy enough, to funnel the bewildered mechanisms out and into the hole, and guide them down to sit placid and stupid in the center, heads lolling onto their chests, weakened by both starvation and blunt head trauma. Then to take off, at full thrust and engines screaming, for all to hear and track, to circle as if patrolling briefly before gunning into the depths of what had once been known as Praxus. What was left was obvious conjecture about an, evidently, weary unit, lost in the city and searching for their detachment.

Simple enough to predict the appropriate course of action, as protocol and good fortune dictated.

The last few clustered together, optics flashing in terror, jaws opening and closing on screams that would never leave their empty mouths.

What luck, thought Thundercracker, that Autobots are so stupidly gullible.


End file.
